Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty

“You are a specious fellow,” returned Sir John, fixing his eyes upon him, “and carry two faces under your hood, as well as the best. Didn't you give me in this room, this evening, any other reason; no dislike of anybody who has slighted you lately, on all occasions, abused you, treated you with rudeness; acted towards you, more as if you were a mongrel dog than a man like himself?”

“To be sure I did!” cried Hugh, his passion rising, as the other meant it should; “and I say it all over now, again. I'd do anything to have some revenge on him—anything. And when you told me that he and all the Catholics would suffer from those who joined together under that handbill, I said I'd make one of “em, if their master was the devil himself. I AM one of “em. See whether I am as good as my word and turn out to be among the foremost, or no. I mayn't have much head, master, but I've head enough to remember those that use me ill. You shall see, and so shall he, and so shall hundreds more, how my spirit backs me when the time comes. My bark is nothing to my bite. Some that I know had better have a wild lion among “em than me, when I am fairly loose—they had!”

The knight looked at him with a smile of far deeper meaning than ordinary; and pointing to the old cupboard, followed him with his eyes while he filled and drank a glass of liquor; and smiled when his back was turned, with deeper meaning yet.

“You are in a blustering mood, my friend,” he said, when Hugh confronted him again.

“Not I, master!” cried Hugh. “I don't say half I mean. I can't. I haven't got the gift. There are talkers enough among us; I'll be one of the doers.”

“Oh! you have joined those fellows then?” said Sir John, with an air of most profound indifference.

“Yes. I went up to the house you told me of; and got put down upon the muster. There was another man there, named Dennis—”

“Dennis, eh!” cried Sir John, laughing. “Ay, ay! a pleasant fellow, I believe?”

“A roaring dog, master—one after my own heart—hot upon the matter too—red hot.”

“So I have heard,” replied Sir John, carelessly. “You don't happen to know his trade, do you?”

“He wouldn't say,” cried Hugh. “He keeps it secret.”

“Ha ha!” laughed Sir John. “A strange fancy—a weakness with some persons—you'll know it one day, I dare swear.”

“We're intimate already,” said Hugh.

“Quite natural! And have been drinking together, eh?” pursued Sir John. “Did you say what place you went to in company, when you left Lord George's?”

Hugh had not said or thought of saying, but he told him; and this inquiry being followed by a long train of questions, he related all that had passed both in and out of doors, the kind of people he had seen, their numbers, state of feeling, mode of conversation, apparent expectations and intentions. His questioning was so artfully contrived, that he seemed even in his own eyes to volunteer all this information rather than to have it wrested from him; and he was brought to this state of feeling so naturally, that when Mr Chester yawned at length and declared himself quite wearied out, he made a rough kind of excuse for having talked so much.

“There—get you gone,” said Sir John, holding the door open in his hand. “You have made a pretty evening's work. I told you not to do this. You may get into trouble. You'll have an opportunity of revenging yourself on your proud friend Haredale, though, and for that, you'd hazard anything, I suppose?”

“I would,” retorted Hugh, stopping in his passage out and looking back; “but what do I risk! What do I stand a chance of losing, master? Friends, home? A fig for “em all; I have none; they are nothing to me. Give me a good scuffle; let me pay off old scores in a bold riot where there are men to stand by me; and then use me as you like—it don't matter much to me what the end is!”

“What have you done with that paper?” said Sir John.

“I have it here, master.”

“Drop it again as you go along; it's as well not to keep such things about you.”

Hugh nodded, and touching his cap with an air of as much respect as he could summon up, departed.

Sir John, fastening the doors behind him, went back to his dressing-room, and sat down once again before the fire, at which he gazed for a long time, in earnest meditation.

“This happens fortunately,” he said, breaking into a smile, “and promises well. Let me see. My relative and I, who are the most Protestant fellows in the world, give our worst wishes to the Roman Catholic cause; and to Saville, who introduces their bill, I have a personal objection besides; but as each of us has himself for the first article in his creed, we cannot commit ourselves by joining with a very extravagant madman, such as this Gordon most undoubtedly is. Now really, to foment his disturbances in secret, through the medium of such a very apt instrument as my savage friend here, may further our real ends; and to express at all becoming seasons, in moderate and polite terms, a disapprobation of his proceedings, though we agree with him in principle, will certainly be to gain a character for honesty and uprightness of purpose, which cannot fail to do us infinite service, and to raise us into some importance. Good! So much for public grounds. As to private considerations, I confess that if these vagabonds WOULD make some riotous demonstration (which does not appear impossible), and WOULD inflict some little chastisement on Haredale as a not inactive man among his sect, it would be extremely agreeable to my feelings, and would amuse me beyond measure. Good again! Perhaps better!”

When he came to this point, he took a pinch of snuff; then beginning slowly to undress, he resumed his meditations, by saying with a smile:

“I fear, I DO fear exceedingly, that my friend is following fast in the footsteps of his mother. His intimacy with Mr Dennis is very ominous. But I have no doubt he must have come to that end any way. If I lend him a helping hand, the only difference is, that he may, upon the whole, possibly drink a few gallons, or puncheons, or hogsheads, less in this life than he otherwise would. It's no business of mine. It's a matter of very small importance!”

So he took another pinch of snuff, and went to bed.

From the workshop of the Golden Key, there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good-humoured, that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. No man who hammered on at a dull monotonous duty, could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting waggon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out of it.

Tink, tink, tink—clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the streets” harsher noises, as though it said, “I don't care; nothing puts me out; I am resolved to he happy. “ Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people's notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds—tink, tink, tink, tink, tink.

It was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind; footpassengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it; neighbours who had got up splenetic that morning, felt goodhumour stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing; still the same magical tink, tink, tink, came gaily from the workshop of the Golden Key.